


and smile

by interstellarbeams



Category: Jamestown (TV)
Genre: F/M, Flower Crowns, Gen, Love at First Sight, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 10:41:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18444887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interstellarbeams/pseuds/interstellarbeams
Summary: James used to believe in things like love but the harsh life of Jamestown left him jaded, that was until he met Alice.





	and smile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daylightspeaks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daylightspeaks/gifts).



> For Tiffy, who requested a James and Alice fic. I hope you like it! :)
> 
> Comments and kudos are appreciated! <3

Summers in the Virginia colony remind him of summers back home when he was a boy. The wind blowing through the trees would send green leaves swirling around him and he would pretend they were the fairies that his mother had told stories of as he sat at her knee. _A foolish boy’s dream_ , he thinks now as he watches a string of slaves, led by their master, pass him on the dusty road.

The sun is beating down on his head and he for once wishes for a hat that he doesn’t possess to shade his eyes from the midday glare. 

He continues on deeper into the woods surrounding the settlement, his ultimate destination still a mile away, and he wishes, half-heartedly, that he had decided to stay in town today. The stench of the busy streets and shouts of the hawkers are a sharp contrast to the wind in the trees and the lapping of the river on the shore, but the familiarity calls to him like nothing else, except for _her_.

Alice is the only one who could pull him away from the shackles of his duty, without even trying mind you, and she doesn’t even know it.

He picks up a fallen limb under a beech tree and swishes it through the tall grass as he goes, feeling, if not looking, like the young boy who believed in fairies, spirits and the like. That boy had been a dreamer. James can hardly believe that they were the same person, so jaded had he become from life’s hardships. 

But when he had first set eyes on the maid, Alice, he had felt his heart skip in his chest unlike anything he had ever felt. He had remembered why he used to believe in the unseen, the miraculous, the improbable. One look at her and his dreams had come to life, like spring flowers blooming after an April storm. 

Never mind that she belonged to another. He felt like she was meant for better things than Henry Sharrow or even his brother, Silas, who ultimately became her husband. She was meant for _him_. Never mind that she didn’t see it, _wouldn’t_ see it. She was like the answer to a prayer, one that hadn’t crossed his lips since he had set foot in this godforsaken country. 

A cloud crossed over the sun, startling him from his musings, and he realized he had finally reached his destination. He stood underneath a tall hickory tree with a green field spread out before him, tall grasses swaying in the wind. Nutshells discarded by squirrels in the autumn crunched under his feet as he leaned against the sun-warmed trunk and settled in to wait. 

Time passes slowly here in the wilderness with no work to distract him and the fear of an attack by the Pamunkey slight after their esteemed governor’s recent attempts at peace had been solidified by a shared pipe full of Indian-grown tobacco. James watched the wildflowers sway in the rushing breeze that also stirred the fields and lifted his cotton vest before settling down to a whisper as soft as a lover’s. 

The flowers reminded him of his mother, too. Her name had been Anne, like Queen Anne’s lace, and she liked pretty things, the types of pretty things that they couldn’t afford with the scant coins that his father garnered running a rag shop. She had made do, picking flowers along the path running in front of their house and braiding them into chains that she hung from the rafters and setting bundles of them in every available vessel. James must have gotten his fanciful nature from her, once upon a time, before he let it die like the flowers that had wilted and dropped to the floor, dry and withered, after her death. 

James picked a lone flower that waved next to his leg and placed it behind his ear rakishly before sneaking from his hiding place to collect more blooms before retreating to the trees. He sat down, his lap full of riotous color — white and yellow daisies, dark violet pansies, and crimson bee balm — and he started to braid.

Alice would be along any time now, her arms full of her newborn baby, and she would sit in the sunshine, the rays turning her hair a glorious auburn. She will laugh and smile and coo endearments at her baby boy, eyes bright with the love that she held for him, and James will watch as she turns her head away from her sleeping baby. Her beautiful eyes cloud over -- maybe at an old memory from her past or a recent setback on the Sharrows’ plantation -- but he likes to think she is missing something and that that something is him. 

He doesn’t think it is arrogance that makes him believe that she could have feelings for him. He thinks it might be hope, actually, a hope that she has pulled out of the deep, dark crevice that was his heart and ignited the spark that was belief in love. The belief that still existed in him ever since he was that idealistic boy who lost his mother, but one that had been buried until she had brought it forth with her sweetness, kindness and humility. 

He finishes braiding the chain, the beautiful colored flowers woven together and shining in the summer sun, bright enough to shame the ruby, emerald and amethyst of a queen’s crown. He thinks about pulling it apart. She won’t know it’s from him, and maybe she won’t even care, but then he remembers the small smile that will probably soften her face at the sight and the freckles that will wrinkle on her scrunched nose and he can’t destroy it. That would be like stomping her happiness into the dust.

Even if she won’t know the depth of his feelings at least she will be happy at the sight of the flowers. And _he_ will know how much he cares, how much he loves her, even if she never will. 

He whistles long and low a tune that he remembers from his childhood, a sound that mimics a starling, and then he leaves, the flower crown propped up against the tree where she will hopefully see it and _smile_.


End file.
